


The Only Moment We Were Alone

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: JackSepticEye (YouTube RPF), Markiplier (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Running Away, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. He's alone, all alone. But then they're alone together, and that's all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Moment We Were Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be like. A two page drabble. It's now 6 pages and almost 3k. My bad.
> 
> Uhh, wrote most of this in two days. It's a little different than I meant it to be, but I still like it? A bit iffy in some places, but--I'm proud of it nonetheless. Practiced a bit on some word stuff, so. 
> 
> But yeye. Enjoy.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Jack sucks in another sharp breath of the cigarette, the acrid taste in his mouth forgotten momentarily as the smoke burns the inside of his throat, searing his tongue and nostrils before he blows it out, making smoke rings. They float up and away, and then disappear into the air of his chilly, attic room, and he closes his eyes. How free the smoke seems to be.

He rolls onto his side, wincing slightly at the aches in his shoulders and along his back. He taps the cigarette over the side of his bed, watching with an uncaring gaze as the ashes fall onto the floor. Really, he should likely be worried about accidentally setting the wood on fire, but then he doesn't, for two reasons.

One, Jack could care less about this shithole of a room. Two, dying is probably the least of his worries. 

While on his side, he takes another, shorter puff, huffing it out with ease. Jack rolls the joint between his fingers, and for a moment allows himself to be concerned for his health and lungs. At eighteen, a kid probably shouldn't be smoking his ass off everyday, but these days, it's the only real way to relieve his stress. 

And boy, does he _need_ that. 

Jack almost takes another deep puff when he hears tapping at his window. This in itself is alarming—he's pretty high up in his attic room, and there should be nothing at his window ever, especially at the hour. A quick glance to the clock indicates that it's a little after midnight, and goddamn, that tapping is getting _annoying_. 

He tosses the cigarette into an old coffee cup, where so many other joints lay dead. With his socked feet, Jack creeps over to the window and looks out it and meets the brown eyes of his boyfriend.

It takes all of Jack's energy not to scream. He slaps a hand over his mouth and bites into his middle finger, staring at Mark Fischbach in utter horror as he balances on the tree limb outside his window, gesturing wildly at the glass indicating he wants Jack to open the window. In a daze, Jack complies, pulling it open as quietly as he can manage before he hisses out, “Mark. What the _fuck_.”

Mark tiptoes in, and Jack reminds himself to be grateful for his care. It would be even worse if his parents heard the two of them pattering around. Without speaking, Mark shimmies a little, as if shaking something off, before he sighs, giving him a wide smile.

Jack continues to stare, cocking a brow in confusion. Mark reaches out and cups his cheeks, tilting his head a fraction to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. Upon contact, Jack sighs into it, finding that he suddenly doesn't care why Mark is here so long as he keeps doing that.

It is, however, short lived. Mark pulls away, rubbing his thumbs along his cheeks before saying, rather petulantly, “You've been smoking again.”

Jack rolls his eyes. Mark has always been strongly disapproving of the habit. He doesn't nag him as much as he used to, realizing it to be a futile effort, but every now and again he makes his irritation with it known again. Yet, whenever he does, Jack feels somewhat embarrassed, because Mark deals with _so_ much for him, and this is just one more thing for the pile. Which is why he murmurs, “Sorry. Just...stress. Been missing you like hell.”

At that, Mark softens. He pulls Jack into a strong embrace, the warmth of his arms enough to make Jack feel safer than he ever has. His hand on the back of his head, petting his hair, Mark whispers, “I know. I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't want to get you in any trouble. And I know we see each other at school but we can't even do anything there...”

Jack shudders. He grips onto the fabric of Mark's shirt, tight in his fingers, and only now does he realize it's his flannel, but not his favorite. The blue one, more soft, the one Mark says would look great on Jack, because it would bring out his eyes. “And you decided to come into my house in the middle of the fuckin' night, then? Where it's even more fuckin' dangerous?”

He tries to sound angry, because his survival mode kicks in and he wants to be safe. With Mark here, he isn't safe—not that he's ever safe but Mark makes his safety plummet lower and lower with each second he's present. But Jack can't remain that way, because he's so glad, he's so glad to see Mark, to hold him and to kiss him and to smell the spice and cinnamon and coffee on him. 

Mark presses a kiss to the side of his head. “I started missing you too much. I had to—had to see you. Had to hold you, even if just for a few seconds...”

He trails off, and from the way that he tightens his own hold on Jack, just for a second, he can't help but feel like that's not the entire truth. But Jack doesn't prompt him, and laughs, a little breathless, a little louder than he means to. He immediately shuts his mouth, and Mark kisses him again as if to silence his worries. 

Jack wraps his arms around his neck, pressing their bodies closer, wanting every bit of Mark that he can get. He loves Mark so much, is in love with him and who cares if he's only eighteen? Mark is the realest thing in his life, the most solid , the most steadfast and loyal—the only thing that matters to him. He's been craving this, craving this affection for weeks, on withdraw from having it suddenly cut off from him. Mark nips at his lower lip and Jack readily complies, allowing Mark to deepen the kiss, eliciting a soft groan from the both of them.

But at that, Jack yanks away, hissing, “We can't—we can't be loud, alright? It's midnight, for Christ's sake, and if my parents hear us, hear _you_ \--”

His voice cracks at the thought. As if his grip could grow any tighter, Jack squeezes his shoulders, and Mark hushes him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. As quietly as they can manage, they creep over to Jack's bed, which creaks under the combined weight of them. A soft beat passes over them, the dull of Jack's heartbeat more rapid than it's ever been, throbbing in his chest and against the skin of his wrist—and it's _fear_ , fear mingled with a tinge of excitement. But mostly fear. Mark laces their fingers together, attempting to soothe him.

Jack sighs. He flops back against his bed, wincing as he does so. His face pinches in anguish for a few seconds, but he quickly wipes his face blank of anything. Not fast enough, though. Mark watches him, gaze narrowing briefly before he murmurs, “Lemme see your back.”

With hesitance, Jack shifts, crossing his legs as he sits on the bed, back towards Mark. Tenderly, Mark tugs up his hoodie and t-shirt, a barely audible gasp following when he reveals the skin. Jack closes his eyes, trying to paint himself a picture in his mind. Pale, bruised, yellowing and purple skin, stretches across the contours of his back, and across his shoulders. Mark pulls his shirt back down, his fingers still gripping the fabric.

Mark rests his forehead between his shoulder blades, resting there, as if trying to imbue him with some sort of strength. Jack begins to speak, but Mark cuts him off. “I'm sorry, Sean. I'm so—I'm so sorry.”

For what? Jack almost asks. But then he knows. Mark apologizes for not being here, for being here, for not being able to protect him, for being the partial cause—which he shouldn't be apologizing for. So he says so. “Don't be sorry. You're here now. That's all I need.”

Mark lets out a mirthless chuckle. His gentle fingers slide down his back, as if retracing the blemishes. “I should have...I should have brought something. I'm sorry. I was so eager to get out here that I—that I wasn't thinking.”

He mumbles something to himself afterwards, and even in the stillness of his room, he can't make it out. Perhaps that's due to the roar of his heart in his ears. 

“It doesn't hurt as bad as it looks,” Jack comments. “It hurt worse earlier. It's healing now, so it's kind of uncomfortable at the most.”

Mark doesn't speak for a minute, but he hums softly, affirming that he's heard him. 

“When did you last eat?” Mark prompts out of nowhere, and Jack shrugs. He's gotten so used to being hungry that sometimes he doesn't even notice anymore. His boyfriend clicks his tongue, muttering to himself again, except this time Jack picks it up. “Guess we'll take care of that before we leave...”

“Leave _where_?” Jack barks, harsher than he intends. Mark goes rigid, and at his silence, Jack shrugs his grip off and turns to face him. 

Mark laces his fingers together, dropping his gaze. He doesn't answer him, and Jack demands, a little louder, “What are you talking about, Mark?”

His boyfriend shrugs helplessly, before he finally sighs. Brown eyes flicker to meet his blue ones, and he reaches out, taking Jack's hands in his own. He laces their fingers together again, and apprehension builds in his throat. “Mark--”

“I want you to run away with me,” Mark blurts out, and Jack stills. When he begins to pull his hands away, Mark's grip on him tightens. “ _Sean_ \--”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Jack hisses, a sudden weight bearing down on him. “What the absolute fuck, Mark? That's so fucking stupid—fuck, what the fuck, that's not even fucking possible--!”

Mark envelopes him in an embrace. “Hey, hey. Don't swear so much. Let me finish, okay? Let me explain...okay?”

Jack breathes in, and then out slowly, before he swallows, nodding his head. Mark doesn't let go of him, as he continues, “I have a friend. He's been really good friends with my family for years, now. He lives a few towns over, easily accessible. And I told him about you, and me and—he said we could come stay with him. He's close to the college I wanted to go to anyway. Mom is already okay with it, and we could—we could go together...Jack?”

He's trembling in Mark's hold, almost uncontrollably. Against his will, he can feel tears welling in his eyes. Jack bites down hard on his lower lip, hoping that he can keep the tears from spilling over. “That's not possible...” he whispers.

Because it can't be. He can't get away so easily. He's been trapped for so long, and there can't be a way for him to leave so readily available to him. Mark can't be offering this to him. It's a dream.

A dream. Yes, it has to be a dream. Mark can't even be here. He's dreaming because he wants to see him so badly, to touch him, to kiss him-- 

“Sean, Sean,” Mark says his name, over and over, like a mantra. His touch is so real, it has be real, even if he can't believe it. “It _is_ possible. You're eighteen. You can do whatever the hell you want. You don't have to stay here. We 'll have a place together. Danny is really great, too—he'll love you. We graduate next _week_ , Sean. We can graduate and get the hell out of here. Together. We can do it. Please, Sean.”

Jack both loves and hates the sound of his real name on Mark's tongue. It has a power over him, a dull spell that makes him want to _believe_ , against all odds. 

“They'll kill me,” Jack whispers, and the tears continue to well in his eyes, until they slowly stream down his cheeks. “They'll kill _you_. I can't, Mark, I—I can't. I--”

He chokes on his words, lodging themselves in his throat. He can scarcely breathe. Mark takes his face in his hands, wiping away his tears with his thumbs. He kisses Jack sweetly, briefly, until Jack breaks it, whispering brokenly, “I love you.”

It's the first time he's ever said the words out loud. Mark has said them countless times, so effortless, but Jack has always been unable to say them back. He had always thought them, yes, but now, now he can say them—because he does, he always has, and Mark kisses him again, more fiercely, as if returning them, as if reassuring him that he still does, and Jack starts crying harder.

“Run away with me,” Mark murmurs, his brown eyes pleading. “I love you so much, Jack. I don't want you to suffer anymore. I want you to be happy. I want to see that beautiful smile of yours every single day.”

As if willed by Mark's words alone, Jack unconsciously smiles, and Mark trails his thumb along his lips. “There it is. That's what I want to see everyday.”

Too many emotions overwhelm Jack at once. He's happy and sad and scared and anxious and sick, and really, he just wants to sleep. That anxiety gnaws at him again, clawing at the base of his throat and down into his stomach. He wants to say yes, so badly it almost kills him. But he's terrified. He's terrified of something happening to Mark, so scared for him. Jack hardly cares for the safety of himself—he's been beat around his entire life, and he knows how to survive. But Mark—Mark is all he has, so precious to him, so innocent that if he were to lose him--

“I'm not going anywhere,” Mark assures him, as if reading his mind. “I'm right here. I'll never leave you.”

“How can you promise that?” Jack says, in spite of himself. “We're fuckin' teenagers, Mark. Nothing lasts.”

And it doesn't. Mark swallows, then pauses, before shrugging. “I just—I'm never going to leave you, Jack. I just know it. Whether we're friends or boyfriends or _whatever_. You're just...you're mine and I'm never going to let you go. I love you. I'm here, if you'll let me be.”

“Please,” Jack chokes out, before he can fully think it through. “ _Please_.”

Mark pulls him into another hug, and Jack breathes in the scent of his clothes—the mixture of laundry detergent and deodorant fills his nostrils and it's more calming than cigarettes ever were. His boyfriend rubs soothing circles into his back, yet Jack's heart hammers so loudly in his chest he's surprised his parents can't hear it. 

Jack breathes in. “Okay.”

He pauses, and Mark pulls away to look at him, leveling their gazes, and when Jack gives a little nod, Mark's eyes light up. Jack can still feel the tremble in his fingers as he fiddles with the sleeves of his fraying hoodie. “When...when do we go?” 

“Tomorrow,” Mark says, and Jack almost throws up. So soon? He'd been thinking a week from now, maybe two. How will they graduate at that rate? Jack's got some saving from odd jobs here and there that his parents don't know about, but he really doesn't want to blow it on trips back and forth to school. 

Apparently noticing his panic, Mark continues, “I need you to trust me, Jack. I've got this worked out. Danny and I have planned this all the way through. It's gonna work. We're gonna graduate and you can say goodbye to all of this. Trust me. Do you trust me?”

Jack swallows, then nods. “I do.”

“Okay,” Mark pushes him down gently, and Jack lays down, ignoring the brush of pain that crosses over him. 

Mark then lays down next to him, and Jack immediately rolls onto his side, curling into him. Mark puts his arms around him, running his fingers through his hair, and tiredness washes over him.

“You can sleep,” his boyfriend whispers. “I've got you. I'll keep you safe.”

Jack's mind whirs at the thought. But then it relaxes—his parents never come up to his room in the mornings. They only yell. And the way Mark is talking, they'll be gone before he ever hears them.

“I love you,” Jack says, as he closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

It's not nearly as much as he wants to say, but words jumble in his head—he can't articulate out loud what else he wants to say, because there's so much. All of it tangles together in one incomprehensible blur, and it's frustrating, because god, how can he ever repay this? But luckily, Mark seems to understand. 

“And I love you,” he reassures him, and he ends it there, as if he's gotten his point across. He has.

Jack falls asleep to the feeling of Mark's fingers in his hair, the two of them drinking in the eerie peace of being alone together, secure in each other's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated. Thanks for reading.


End file.
